Chapter 29

CHAPTER 29

“Dinnae move, ye traitor ,” Reuben spat.

Fury and shock ripped through Grant, and his hands started to shake as he clenched them by his sides. The heat of his anger matched the heat of the blood now sliding down his neck from where Reuben had carelessly cut him.

But more than that, he felt a jolt of fear that he had not felt since he’d been dragged to the gallows—fear that Reuben now knew what Emma meant to Grant and would use it against him. Or worse, hurt her to get to Grant.

I should have never trusted ye.

Deep down, Grant had always suspected, had always known. And yet he’d hoped like a fool that Reuben would forgive and forget. That his love for their mother, who’d tried to protect them from their father, would win out.

“Just when I think ye cannae sink any lower, I find ye on yer knees in front of a Sassenach .”

Reuben lifted his blade, forcing Grant to look up at him as he came around, his pale green eyes wild and his lips pulled back in such a terrible sneer—it was as if the former Laird Ronson had not perished at sea.

“Tell me, is this how she likes ye?”

Grant snarled, and Reuben laughed. Grant used the opportunity to cast a glance at Emma, willing her to run. He thought he could hold off his brother for a bit before he’d be able to go after her. She’d managed to escape and survive before—she could do it again.

Go to Kyla, he screamed in his head. Run.

“What are you doing?” Emma cried instead. Fear flashed across her face, and she stepped forward, her panicked gaze fixed on Grant. “Reuben, please.”

“Dinnae speak to me, wench ,” Reuben spat, glaring at her.

Go, Grant mouthed at her, but she shook her head, her eyes flicking between them. Go now.

“If only I’d kenned that ye dinnae care for mushrooms, Emma,” Reuben sneered. “I would have taken more care with preparin’ the delicacy.”

Another jolt went through Grant, duller and more predictable. He stared up at his brother, who was twitching and brimming with a frantic triumph.

“So, it was ye,” he said.

“Aye.” Reuben turned back to Grant, all pretense gone. “I meant for it to look like a romantic suicide pact—that ye chose the English lass over yer people. And the clan would ken, as Faither did, that I was his true heir.”

“Is that why ye waste so much time doin’ nothin’ instead of helpin’ run the castle and village?”

For a moment, Reuben’s mouth dropped open, and he seemed uncertain. But then, he composed himself.

“I will be thrice the Laird ye were, Grant. I just had to bide me time.” He shook his head, contempt etched into the lines of his face. Grant did not understand how he had not seen it before. “When Faither died and Maither fetched ye, I told meself that I wouldnae let such a pathetic man and his rotten offspring take me place.”

“Rotten?” Grant snarled. “Ye sound like those mad English who speak of us as though we have cursed blood.”

“Aye, they’re useful,” Reuben said with a chuckle, and Grant’s blood ran cold. “I mean, look at ye—the great assassin of Clan MacCabe, me boot. Ye cannae even speak. Ye are always tryin’ to die, Grant. I see it—and yet ye never seem able to save yerself.” He jerked his head toward Emma. “The first time, it was Maither. Last time, it was the Sassenach . Always wrapped in apron springs and women.” His lip curled. “Faither was right about ye.”

“Fine,” Grant spat. “He was. Let Emma go.”

“Och, nay, nay,” Reuben drawled. “She has caused me far too many problems—and she kens too much. I dinnae understand it, but she has become popular in the castle. They might believe her.”

With that, he kicked Grant hard in the chest.

Grant fell down, gasping for breath. Meanwhile, Reuben twirled his sword and leveled it at Emma, grinning.

“I shall enjoy watchin’ ye watch her die, Braither,” Reuben crowed. “And then ye shall join her. How romantic, eh?”

Emma fell to the ground as he approached, her hands clenching in the dirt, and Grant let out a hoarse roar.

Nay, nay—God, please nay. Kill me instead!

As Grant gasped for air, he watched Reuben swing his sword almost idly and lunge. Only, his brother jumped back with a scream when Emma threw a handful of sand in his face.

Grant’s heart soared with admiration for her cleverness while his brother screeched in pain.

Reuben stumbled toward the water, spitting out the sand and cursing, while she scrambled away.

She flew to Grant’s side and tried to pull him up.

“Go, go,” Grant rasped. “Get out of here.”

“I won’t leave you!” Emma cried, then she paled as her eyes fell to his neck. “Grant, you’re bleeding—badly.”

“Dammit,” he muttered and shook his head. That explained the dizziness. Or perhaps his brother had coated his blade in poison. “Stay back, then—and take deep breaths.”

“No, Grant, wait!” Emma called as he pushed her back and jumped up, drawing his blade as he raced toward Reuben.

Reuben, who was scrubbing his face in the water, spun around to parry the blow. Thunder boomed in the distance, an echo of their fighting, as Grant pushed his brother back into the shallows.

“Yield and I will consider exile,” he snarled. “Ye cannae hope to defeat me.”

“The toxin from the gallowsweet will kick in soon, and ye shall fall into a sweet sleep, Braither,” Reuben said with a mad laugh. “And I shall run me blade through yer heart, then throw ye in the loch.” He leaned in. “And perhaps I’ll have that pretty Outlander, eh?”

Grant mustered every bit of willpower as he rammed his shoulder into his brother’s chest and then swung his sword. Rain began to fall, and lightning flashed in the distance, while thunder boomed. The wind rose, and Reuben laughed, splashing and shoving back his hair.

“Ye cannae win,” he shouted. “Even the land around us kens that the true Laird is me.”

“I think it is the opposite, Braither,” Grant said through gritted teeth. “Yer treachery is so heinous that the land rebels and the sky weeps.”

For a moment, Reuben faltered, and there was something petulant in his expression, something that dredged up a nauseating memory of their father. It always came down to selfish wants, like a little boy demanding and screaming for toys and treats, and now he knew he could never have them.

“I should have expected that Faither would fail ye,” Grant snapped. “That’s why Maither tried to get ye out, too. But he beat her and cut her face when he found out, did ye ken that?” His throat burned from all his yelling. “And he locked her up in the dungeons—for weeks .”

Reuben shrugged. “She should’ve kenned her place.”

“Ye sorry bastard,” Grant spat as pity and horror filled him. “He took everythin’ that could’ve been good from ye. Everythin’ that our maither tried to give us. But ye shall nae touch Emma, and never again will our family fail Banrose.”

Reuben’s eyes narrowed. “In another moment, ye will be dead, Grant. Perhaps ye should spare me the speeches.”

“Och, Reuben,” Grant hissed and touched his neck, showing him his bloody fingers. “Ye were barely raised as a warrior, whereas I was raised both as a warrior and an assassin, ye see. Ye didnae think that MacCabe taught me how to fight while incapacitated?” He shook his head, and a grim smile tugged at his lips. “And ye never learned the trick of poison. Requires a subtler hand than a careless, pampered one.”

Reuben paled and stumbled back, his grip on his blade loosening. “What—what do ye mean?”

“Ye might have slowed me down a bit, but the poison is all but tricklin’ out of the cut ye made. Ye need to have me ingest it or stab me in the belly for it to work.” Grant laughed. “Maybe it is a weakness to try and be a good man in the twisted legacy our faither left—to look out for others rather than ourselves. And mayhap I cannae speak too loudly because of the rope.”

He lunged, and the two brothers fought briefly, their swords clashing in the rain. Lightning and thunder crashed closer, and Reuben’s eyes were wild with panic, for he knew that he had lost. Eventually, his sword flew through the air, before it sank into the loch.

“Yer mistake, Reuben,” Grant said slowly as he leveled his sword at his brother’s heart, “has always been that ye do too little and talk too much.”